‘It always starts as thick lines, that seem to serve no purpose, until you realise that in the end, the lines were thin as spider silk, but you were standing too close to notice’

.

.

.

As It was taken from your deep, pathetic mind

As it was stricken from the horrors of your time

You wonder once and wonder twice

What’s being left of your alibis

You sad pathetic fool, haven’t you heard that the time to mourn your comfort is instead

A knife in curved backs and twisted spines, and the inside of your mind’s confines?

Haven’t you seen, as pictured on your eyes, your gaping mouth
As it tries not to choke on this aftertaste of despise

Bitter, sullen flavours that you amass

And keep in a lattice

Left to rot

As the years pass, in an instant

And then, again, you taste the ash
And wonder, how much of an ass

You have been so far
Have you managed to be on par

With the worms that are inviting you to dinner
In a diner open to each and every sinner
In a horrid box within the ground
In the fire, were the ash in your gaping hole, was found?

And then again,
The fruit goes sour,
And you eat it with desire,
to destroy the beauty you’ve amassed
In case that as one more belonging to the litany of asses
You will pass

And then, again, you eat the ash
And vomit through your tear ducts the pass

Of time that no longer stands
Nor has it ever,
Even when it was mimicking the sands.

Get thee to a nunnery, as once she was told to go, clip off your tongue and throw it in the fire
You arrant knave
You cannot save this dream from burning out
And shrivelling to coal
And blowing away from your gaping mouth,

As ash

A diet of worms in a symphony of words
As liquid light fades from the frozen vial

As the forbidden fruit has been cast into you
In denial

You saw your god

Assfucked and naked

On the feet of the statue of Belial

Twenty three gaping mouths ooze the blood, that is the life,

Away

One of them, you know is yours
The one that wonders why him too
Has stabbed the lie inside of you
And thus you keep the wound at heart
As you try to pick apart
The field from all that’s ripe, and soars
To heavens sung by wild boars

And as the Hogs of War approach,
To guide your form into reproach
You stuff the produce in your mouth

And then you hide.
Neither North
Nor South
But in the box within the ground
Were you were told you won’t be found

And once again, you have amassed
To seal your wounds
That give away that years, have passed
These sour fruit
That only you, can turn to ash

.

.

.

.

‘You close your mouth and go to sleep, to awaken from a dream that none has lulled you into, and all have beckoned you to join.
The ash is everywhere, and so you cannot notice’

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